It's dark, like night. A house, with a long kitchen bar just by the back door and a garage. A leisurely cigarette, whiling away, standing to look at the back yard that extends into black. The only light is the new moon. Little cats mew at my feet and twist their bodies into serpentine shapes around my ankles. I bend to stroke their silky coats: black ones. Marbelized patterns. Then they startle and dart off around the side of the house.

I glance up and see a shadow. A big one, slow at first as it comes from the distant nothing but clearer as it comes to me.

Panic turns the blood in my veins to ice.

I drop my cigarette half smoked and back into the door which has been ajar the whole the time. I swing the door shut. The door passes through the jam, though it's never done that before. On the outside it swings and hits the brick of the house.

I'm always surprised at this.

I am left face to face with this cat. A big black cat. Not black. Spotted. Then it dawns on me:

It's a mountain lion.

Terrified, I grab the faulty door's knob and try again. The doorjam may as well be air. Jolted with adrenaline, I attempt to quell my shaking long enough to match the door to the jam, to throw the lock in place to secure the door. The door is suspended in air. The house has disappeared.

I mean the guy is amazingly refreshing, considering how crude and vulgar he gets. But he’s fucking brilliant, every little tidbit he writes just totally speaks to you, you know?

Off track, as is my custom.

My network spans from published authors, to soon-to-be-pubbed authors, to writing hopefuls, to musicians, historians, and developers. It’s strange: For the first time in my life practically, I am defined.

I’m a writer. So what. It isn’t my career and I’m not to the point of being desperate to be seen in print. But the journey is such a sweet experience. To be told by professionals in the business that I should be published is heart-wrenchingly terrifying.

So, let’s recap: By being afraid of people, I’ve amassed an audience.

By not caring who thought what of what I write, I’ve gotten enthusiasts. I hesitate to call them fans. I’ll let them toot their own horns.

And now, for the hell of it, I’m looking to make a vampire Spaghetti Cabellero Mexican Pulp Fictiony Quentin-tribute novel.

Breathing here.

I had to stop and think outside the box, the keyboard, even my own head.Hey guys, we’re CREATORS.

We make stuff up that has never existed before. Holy shit, that is DEEP.

I started shaking. And then, I picked up my notebook and called Xan home.

11 July 2009

Fact: I have to write daily, or every other day, or I feel strange and pressed, stressed and angry, or something beyond that. As a person who is not-so-gifted with stories constantly running through her head, I have to let them out or do something with the ideas, else I feel I'm letting it go to waste.

In short, I'm pre-coffee and feel obligated to dish out a tidbit or two on me because it's been awhile, and some dumb poem doesn't cut it. At least it wouldn't with me. And it doesn't.

I've rejoined a few old friends, one from high school, and one from about 6-7 years back. The image of Carrie that they retained in their minds isn't entirely accurate any longer. As one friend said to me yesterday, “You've tamed down,” and yes, thank you for noticing. I have and I'm okay with it. I've finally nailed down the art of 'showing a little leg' to the world, but just enough to be tasteful. Everyone has a dark side, and a sexy side, and a serious side. My goal has been to somehow combine the three and add in a good dash of humor and present that to the world as “shadowsinstone”.

I have also, as they say, been writing my ass off.

I entered two contests in the past month, and even though I haven't won anything I've had thoughtful people advise me on how much the piece touched in a deep dark spot inside, or how it made them hurt for the narrator or for me (which is entirely unnecessary, I'm not in pain of any sort). I have the thickest skin when it comes to my work and I completely invite anyone to slaughter it while it's kicking in their arms. I know I'm at least acceptable in my skill and that is good, but the perfectionist and the completist in me drives me on to do more, better and of course faster.

Time is not my ally and through that, I've learned how to get most of the draft right the first time, on the first pass, on the first draft. This is really hard to do, and perhaps it doesn't showcase what I'm truly capable of, but as my sweet husband tells me, “You gotta hold something back until it's the real thing.”

Well I guess so, but it's unintentional. Hee.

So the baby is now up and running about, so this is the end of my three week broadcast. Have a good day.

01 July 2009

There is a great sadness that invades you when you realize that a situation is no longer beneficial to you any longer. I reached that point today. A moment of silence please, for the death of Greatness.

All of sudden, I found myself in love with the world...

Eh, Whatever.

Carrie Clevenger enjoys
documentaries, non-fiction, Blue Moon, music, and coffee. Sometimes she
writes poetry and short stories that have bad endings. She's the elusive
sort and has a horrid fear of meeting people, but socialization isn't
exactly how good books are written. Carrie is the author of the Crooked
Fang series and has many more awful things planned.